Haibun

FINDERS KEEPERS 

 

 

Early dusk in mid-autumn. The air is scented with damp earth and fermenting leaves. I’m on a walk in my neighborhood. As there are no sidewalks, I walk in the road, staying close to the brush, the weeds and dirt and. . . apples. Apples?  I look up. An apple tree. Here. In a suburb of New York City. The ground is covered with them. They are pitted and bruised and have  soft spots, but I gather up as many as my pockets and hands can hold, feeling like I did when as a child I found a penny on the sidewalk.

 

wind-fall apples

cutting out the bad parts

to make applesauce;

if time spent were money

I couldn’t afford a jar

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